Casey Versus the Confessional
by timewalker05
Summary: Some gifts are more difficult to give than others. John Casey makes his annual pilgrimage to confess his sins.


Thanks to **Poa** for her usual wonderful advice and editing, and to **MySoapBox** for once again letting my bounce this idea off of her. I'm incredibly blessed to have these two lovely ladies in my corner.

CASEY VERSUS THE CONFESSIONAL

The black Lincoln Town Car glided slowly to the curb and stopped precisely halfway between the white lines denoting the parking spot. After a long pause, the driver's door swung open and the last vestiges of a cigar dropped out the door and onto the pavement, followed by a black wingtip which ground the butt into the asphalt. The wingtip was followed by its owner: a large man dressed in black slacks, a black shirt and a black sports coat.

The man stopped for a moment and moved his head slowly from side to side, listening to the vertebrae pop in his stiff neck - it had been a long trip. He shut the car door and sneered at the sticker affixed to the car window by the rental car company of a cigarette covered by a red circle and slash. "Bite me," he muttered.

He looked down and took a deep breath, then turned and faced the building fronting the curb. The gothic stone structure had two massive wooden doors in the center, flanked by smaller - but no less imposing - wooden doors to either side. Above the center doors was a large rosette stained glass window, black in the late afternoon sun. One tall stone spire rose from above the smaller, right hand door to stab at the blue afternoon sky. He squinted at the spire and the corner of his mouth twitched slightly at the sight of the ceramic owl perched near the bronze bell. That was new. Pigeons must have been roosting in the bell tower.

He took another deep breath and looked back down at the far left-hand door, which was slightly ajar. No sense putting this off any longer.

He walked slowly toward the door, his normally confident, measured stride replaced today by a slow step/pause, step/pause, like a man on his way to the gallows. He reached the door much too quickly for his liking, and stood for a moment contemplating the heavy oak door.

He glanced back over his shoulder at the car, as if contemplating escape. Finally, however, he shook his head and turned back toward the door. He was just reaching for the cast iron door handle, worn smooth from years of use, when the door swung unexpectedly open. He took a startled step back, his shoes scuffing on the concrete of the sidewalk.

A woman with a well-worn face and iron grey hair stepped through the door. Her head was covered by a black lace mantilla and her shoulders by a black shawl. Her steel grey eyes, fixed firmly on the ground, jerked up in surprise at meeting someone at the door.

"Oh, excuse me, young man," she said in a voice surprisingly firm for one of her advanced years. "I didn't know anyone was behind the door."

The corners of the man's mouth twitched up just a hair. It had been some time since someone had called him 'young man.' "That's all right, ma'am," he said with a nod. "My fault. I shouldn't have been daydreaming on the doorstep."

"Quite right," the woman said with a nod. Then she brushed past him with a cursory "excuse me" and tottered off down the street.

The man was left holding the door, shaking his head slightly. Memories of Sister Mary Elizabeth, his fourth grade teacher, poured into his consciousness. For the longest time, he had been convinced that the ancient nun had had it in for him, always singling him out among the troublemakers and making him stay after school to write "I will not throw paper airplanes in class" or "I will not tease the girls" a hundred times on the chalkboard. Later, his mother had told him that Sister Mary Elizabeth had thought he hung the moon, but that he needed discipline to reach his potential. Funny that his drill sergeants would have agreed with her.

He shook his head to break himself out of his reverie. Now he _was_ daydreaming on the doorstep. He looked quickly around to make sure no one saw him standing around like some Buy More salesman and then slipped through the door.

The door led into the church's narthex (what others would call a vestibule) – a long, narrow room filled with racks for the weekly bulletins, corkboards with a haphazard collection of fliers and notices tacked to it, and the ubiquitous holy water fonts. He started to step past this latter, but then stopped, dipped his fingers in the water, and touched his forehead, breast, left shoulder and right shoulder in an automatic motion ingrained during childhood.

His footsteps clicked on the linoleum floor as he walked slowly toward the far end of the narthex. At the far end, an arched entrance led to a stairway that spiraled up and out of sight. Other memories flooded back – standing in a long line with his schoolmates, each dressed in red choir robes covered by a white alb, as they filed up to the choir loft to sing for the Christmas or Easter High Mass.

He was snapped out of his reverie this time by a voice from behind him. "Excuse me, Father, I was wanting to get the key to the storage room in the basement so I could…"

He spun around and glowered at the old man in the white t-shirt and dirty overalls who had spoken to him; angry not so much at being mistaken for the priest as the fact that he had allowed someone to startle him. In his profession, being surprised often led to winding up dead. "Do I look like a priest?" he snarled.

The man looked over the black shirt, black jacket, black pants and black shoes. "As a matter of fact, you do," the man said, with just a hint of a brogue creeping into his voice and a twinkle in his eye. "Either that or Johnny Cash."

It was hard not to smile at that, but he managed. "Sorry, neither," he said.

The old man stuck out his wrinkled hand. "Michael O'Flaherty."

"John Casey."

Casey was impressed by the strength of the old man's grip.

"Casey," the old man said, a little surprised. "Any relation to…"

"No," Casey replied quickly, cutting him off.

"Well, good to be meetin' you," Michael said.

Casey responded with a nod as the old man turned and stomped off, no doubt to find the real priest.

"Head in the game, John," Casey muttered and turned to step into the main part of the church.

The main aisle was flanked by two rows of dark, well worn wooden pews, two side aisles, and then two more smaller rows of pews. The pews glowed with prismatic colors from the sun streaming through the soaring stained glass windows marching in brilliant rows along the side walls. At the front of the church was a communion rail separating the nave from the sanctuary, and an ornate gothic altar-piece adorned the back wall. To the left was a side altar with a statue of the Virgin Mary and to the right a side altar with a statue of Saint Joseph. The faint scent of incense, no doubt imbedded in the wood itself from decades of use, hung in the air.

Casey gripped the back of the last pew and lowered himself to one knee in a quick genuflection before slipping quickly into the back pew. He sat down, bent over, and pulled down the kneeler. It came more quickly than he was expecting and slammed against the floor with a 'bang' that reverberated through the cavernous church. He looked around guiltily. In his youth, that sort of thing would have gotten him a long lecture about 'respect for the Lord's House' and more writing on the blackboard after school if one of the nuns had seen him.

He eased himself onto the kneeler, leaned his elbows onto the pew in front of him, folded his hands, and waited. He hated this part. He glanced over at the wall to his left where there was an alcove dominated by three small doors. Above the left and right doors was a small light. Both glowed white, indicating that the confessional was free. The priest/confessor would be behind the center door, waiting for the penitent to slide into the booth and begin confessing his or her sins.

"Ah hell," Casey muttered. He slipped out of the pew and walked slowly toward the confessional. Like the zoom-lens trick in the old black and white movies, the alcove seemed to recede from him with each step toward it. He hung his head and shuffled slowly forward. Finally, he reached the confessional and grabbed the door handle. He squeezed it so hard his knuckles turned white. He took a deep breath, and then yanked the door open so hard he was momentarily afraid he might have loosened its hinges.

There was a rustling sound from behind the center door. Evidently the priest had heard him. He closed his eyes, lowered his head, and drove forward into the confessional. He paused inside. The interior smelled slightly of wood oil. No doubt the old caretaker had been polishing the wood recently. He stood there for a moment, slightly hunched over in the confined space, and then slowly slipped to his knees on the vinyl padded kneeler facing the small wooden grate in the wall facing the priest.

There was a rasp as the little wooden door on the priest's side of the screen slid back. Lapsing into long-ingrained patterns, Casey once more made the sign of the cross as he said, "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been a year since my last confession." He paused and took another breath.

"The Lord welcomes you back, my son," replied the whispered voice of the confessor. "Go on."

"It's been a year since my last confession," Casey repeated, as if backing up to take another run at this. "Since that time, I have killed a man. Well, several men. But they were all bad guys and deserved it, so I guess you could say it was self-defense, so maybe I don't have to confess that... I've lied… but it was in the line of duty so maybe that doesn't count either."

There was a barely audible sigh from the other side of the wooden grate.

"I have taken the Lord's name in vain, oh, I don't know, a couple hundred times. I've been angry at my fellow man, well, pretty much all the time."

Another sigh from the other side of the grate.

"I've had carnal knowledge of a woman, but just once, unfortunately."

"Unfortunately?" came the whispered voice from priest.

"Well, it was Ilsa and… never mind. I'm sorry for that, I guess."

Yet another sigh. "Go on."

"I've stolen… although come to think of it that was in the line of duty, too. Scratch that."

"When was the last time you went to Mass?" the priest asked.

"Um, let's see. 1987?"

"Confess that, too," came the priest's weary voice.

"I've missed Mass."

"Anything else?" the priest asked.

"Nothing comes to mind."

There was a rustle from the other side of the grate. "May the Almighty God…"

"Wait! I almost forgot. There was one lie. To your caretaker just now. That one wasn't in the line of duty. Well, not totally."

"Anything else?" the priest asked with yet another, albeit longer, sigh. Hearing no response, he continued. "Would you say an act of contrition?" the priest asked.

"Oh. Yeah," Casey replied. Digging into his memory, he recited, "Oh my God, I am heartily sorry, for having offended thee. And I detest all my sins, because of thy just punishment; but most of all, because they offend thee, my God, who art all good and worthy of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of thy grace, to sin no more and to avoid the near occasion of sin."

When Casey finished, the priest continued. "May the Almighty God have mercy on you, and forgiving your sins, bringing you to life everlasting. Amen." Another rustle of the priest's vestments. "God the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of His Son, has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church, may God give you pardon and peace and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit."

Casey whispered, "Amen. Thank you, Paul."

"Of course, Johnny," the priest replied. "Next year, same time?"

"Of course," Casey replied.

"When's the last time you called Mom?" Father Paul asked.

"Um, Christmas," Casey replied sheepishly.

"You know she's not getting any younger," Paul replied. "You really should stop by and see her."

Casey nodded. "I will. I promise."

"Good," Paul replied. "I'd hate to have to kick your ass."

"You haven't been able to kick my ass since we were kids."

"Only because I haven't tried since then."

Casey merely grunted. Slowly, he struggled to his feet and opened the door to the confessional. "So long, Paul."

He stepped out of the booth and was about to walk away when he heard the other door open behind him. A man, slightly older and slightly larger than Casey, his frame draped in a black cassock that bulged slightly with a middle-age paunch, hustled out of the confessional and strode over toward Casey. Casey stiffened slightly as his brother enveloped him in a tight bear-hug.

"Take care of yourself, Johnny. I'll be praying for you."

After a pause, Casey returned the hug. "It was good to see you," Casey whispered, telling himself that the catch in his voice was an aftereffect of his earlier cigar.

After a long moment, Paul released him. "Make sure you stop by and see Mom," he said.

Casey nodded. He turned to go, then stopped and turned back to face his brother. "Happy Birthday, Paulie."

"Thank you, Johnny," Paul said, breaking into a smile. "Same time next year?"

Casey just nodded and then hurriedly turned to leave. He didn't want his brother to see him smile. It wouldn't be good for his image.

FIN.


End file.
